Clean

I just read my last blog entry. What a disaster. That's what a small dose of Ambien does to me. It apparently turns me into a cussing sailor and a complete random idiot. I didn't go to bed until 3:00 a.m. that night. Stupid daytime naps, they mess me up.

Happy New Year to everyone out there! 2007 was a so-so year. I'm hoping 2008 is better. In general, I don't like New Year's Eve because it's expensive and never lives up to the hype. This will likely be the last New Year's I spend without children or a pregnancy. What a weird thought. I'm having lots of champagne.

Ever since 2003, I always approach a new year with a bit of hesitancy. In 2002, I was married and I started law school. I had an awesome honeymoon. I got promoted at my job (right before I left, but still). I won a trip to St. Martin. 2002 was a great year. Then, 2003 happened. My dad entered the hospital on February 13, 2003 (the day before my birthday) and died on March 15, 2003. I'd been married less than a year. I was 25. Let me tell you, the death of a parent combined with the first year of law school puts the strain on even the tightest of relationships. It was a tough time.

My parents had just moved to coastal Alabama, where my father really wanted to live. After a very stress-filled life (much of it self-imposed), he died less than six months after he retired and reached his dream of moving back "home." He was 65. It will be five years ago this March that he died. For some reason, I thought about his death while I was in the shower this morning.

I remembered going in to have a moment with him right before we disconnected the ventilator. My dad had open heart surgery in February, sometime around the 17th. He had a brief rebound, but it quickly became evident that his heart problems were to0 extensive. There would be no miracle. Because I was in law school in Georgia, I really couldn't be by his side because I'd miss too much class. If you miss more than a certain number of days, you just have to start over. My dad didn't want that. "Stay in school," my dad insisted. So I did.

When it became clear his death was inevitable, my husband and I drove down to AL in March. I walked in to his ICU room and he looked so small. His muscles had atrophied. His legs were moving rapidly as if he were peddling an invisible bicycle. He was unconscious, and had been for some time. It was hell. I fled the room and sobbed. I was scared of him. Scared to go in that room and see how sick he was, how helpless we were. I felt truly, deeply bad for my mom and guilty that I hadn't been there for that past month. Guilty that we'd lied to him, telling him he would be fine. We didn't know how sick he was or that he had a heart defect. We didn't know.

When I went in to speak to my dad on the day he died, he was unconscious, as usual. His body was filled with a toxic stew as his kidneys had ceased to work. I said something like "I'm sorry. I'm sorry we didn't get more time to know each other." I might have told him "I love you," but I honestly don't remember. It was quick and I've blocked it out. Though unconscious, he started flailing violently when I spoke those words. I think he heard me. Did I scare him? Did he know he was going to die? That haunts me, with a sadness so raw and profound I feel like it's happening all over again as I type this.

Those last moments alone with him are what I remembered this morning in the shower. I was filled with an overwhelming sadness. I felt sick to my stomach. I haven't remembered that in so long. Why this morning, as a new year, a new page, is about to begin? Or is that precisely why? So I don't forget, so I take that with me into the new year?

I finished my shower and got out. I'm at work. I've had a productive morning, but the memory still haunts me.

I think it always will.